Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
A Burying
I see the twelve fair months go by Bearing a coffin shoulder-high. What, laughing? Pretty pall-bearers, Pitiless of the buried years, Have ye never a tear to shed Nor sigh to drop for the newly-dead, Nor marble grief to mark his grave?-- No, none of these; but see, we have Green seed to mingle with his earth.-- What, is not this a burying?---- Nay, a birth.
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